


Man-Made Gods and Mischief Management

by Owaya1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama and Action, How Did I Fall Down This Rabbithole?, M/M, Multi, Not Enough Harry/Tony, Rare Pairings, Teddy Is A Teenager, The Books Happend, Tony Stark Is Trouble
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-30 13:59:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8535889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owaya1/pseuds/Owaya1
Summary: “Well that was surreal,” Tony tells Happy as they drive away. “The guy wanted me to make a phone call with his fireplace. I mean, I talk to my walls all the time, but that’s different you know? My walls talk back. I’m pretty sure this Harry guy doesn’t have an A.I installed in his fireplace. He didn’t even have a television.”Tony Stark crashes into the world of magic quite by accident and it falls to Harry to make sure the budding superhero escapes with all his limbs — and his mind — intact.





	1. When The Wards Fail

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!  
> The story takes place some 15 years after the DH, and is — on the HP front — mostly canon compliant if you overlook the fact that I have stitched Ginny out entirely. Oh well.  
> It is not going to be an overly long fic, just 3 or 4 chapters at the most, though considering the word count it might take me a few days to get them right.
> 
> Sadly unbeta'd, so there are some typos in there that shouldn't be. I tried my best though.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters I just write fanfic.

       

 

* * *

**When The Wards Fail**

* * *

 

       ”Sir, I’m sorry sir, but we need you to stand by for a moment.” The security guard holds up his hands and tries to block Tony’s path out of the airport with his body as Tony Stark strides purposely towards the checkout.

       “Sir, please, no one is a allowed through at the moment, if you’ll just wait here for a few minutes sir, then we will have you through as the very first sir.”  
       Tony Stark snaps off his sunglasses to look down on the fumbling security guard with mounting disbelief. “Do you know who I am?” he asks, his voice indignant.

       To be fair, Tony had paid the airline handsomely to guarantee special treatment — he had brought all the seats on the plane and paid to be allowed through personnel passages and checkpoints so that he wouldn’t have to press through the crowds like everyone else.

       Normally he’d use his own plane of course, but with intercontinental flights it was simply easier (and cheaper, as Pepper likes to remind him) to let others do the job. And yet, here he is, — being held back by a stuttering security guard. Tony would have to have words with… well, Pepper, and then Pepper would have words with whoever was in charge for him. Big _angry_ words, Tony decides as the guard pales further.

       “Of course, Mr Stark sir, but I can’t let you through sir. I have my orders, — nobody is allowed through the last checkpoint right now sir.”

       The personnel hallway ends just up ahead and Tony can see the metal detectors and the checkout booths through the glass doors. The area is completely empty, — which is… well, weird.

 _Is it a bomb threat?_ Tony wonders, feeling a little miffed, but that can’t be right can it?

       “What exactly is going on here?” Tony Stark demands, but the guard only turns paler and shakes his head, mumbling something about clearance.

       “You might as well tell me pal,” Tony presses, eyeing the man annoyedly, “I’ll just hack into your intercom if you don’t. And the security footage.” Tony pulls out his STARKphone and the guard panics.

       “It’s — It’s a VIP, Sir. We have a VIP coming through and we were specifically ordered to keep the area clear for him. It’ll only take a few minutes sir, I promise.”

       “Who?” Stark snaps, because _now_ he is properly miffed. _He_ is the world’s foremost weapons manufacturer isn’t he? He’s a billionaire, a genius and a political wildcard. Nobody has ever offered to clear out the JFK international airport for _him_. What did a man need to do to get _that_ kind of treatment? _Presidents_ didn’t get that kind of treatment. Okay, so the U.S one probably did, but really, why anyone wanted _that_ job was beyond him.

       “I— I don’t have clearance for that sir.” The guard stammers, but Tony ignores him. He has already set JARVIS loose on the security system; Tony would have his answers.

       Up ahead, Tony catches a glimpse of a dark-haired man and a teenager walking past the glass doors and through the checkpoint. They are both dressed casually in t-shirts and jeans and they are pulling small, wheeled trunks behind them. Tony stares at the unassuming figure in disbelief as the man disappears out of sight.

       “JARVIS,” Tony mutters into his earpiece as the guard finally let him pass, “send the footage home, will you? And scan the NSA’s database, I want to know who that guy is”

*

 

       The NSA yields no answers and the video footage is blurry and useless. Stark spends two days obsessing before Pepper finally rounds on him and gets him back on schedule, sitting through meetings and overseeing the manufacturing of their newest weaponry.

       And then Afghanistan happens and by the time the press conference is over and military officials starts yelling at him Tony Stark has utterly forgotten everything about the odd airport incident.

 

*

 

       “Pops have you seen this?” Teddy is sitting next to him on one of the high uncomfortable stools that line the little café’s counter and he is looking up at the television screen mounted on the wall with interest.

       “What?” Harry askes distractedly, as he gazes at the array of cakes on display, trying to decide witch ones look appropriately buttery to match Ron’s tastes.

 _“The television.”_ Teddy says, poking him with an elbow, and Harry frowns at the whingey, exasperated tone Teddy has taken to using lately whenever he thinks Harry is being thoroughly dense.

       Teenagers. Had Harry ever sounded like that? He somehow doubted it.

       Harry peers up at the screen and frowns. “What is _that_?” He askes, more than a little horrified to see a flying suit of amour hurtling across the screen repeatedly as news reporters play the clip over and over.

       “Somebody is going to have to come up with a damn good excuse for this one.” Harry remarks, “I mean, they can’t _obliviate_ an entire country can they?”

       Teddy snorts, “forget about the country, muggles have this thing called the Internet now — or so Larry said and he’s muggleborn — and he says footage like this will spread all over the world in _minutes_.

       Harry looks at Teddy in alarm. “Really?” he asks, and then groans, because he is starting to remind himself of Arthur Weasely. “What are the muggles saying it is?” he asks, and squints up at the television, trying to read the text running at the bottom of the screen. “Robotic weaponry? They can do that?”

       Teddy shrugs, “Why not? They’ve got all those robot arms assembling cars and stuff right? I guess this isn’t so different.”

       “Huh.” Harry says, thinking a flying robot had to be quite a bit different from a mechanic arm, but then he is certainly no expert. Harry turns back to the pastries and picks out some éclairs figuring Ron would like those.

       “Well,” Harry says as they step out of the café and unto the crowed street, “nobody has felt the need to contact me, so at least we know it isn’t some terrible dark magic powering that suit.”

       Now it is Teddy’s turn to frown and Harry catches a glimpse of worried orange eyes before Teddy wills them back to his costmary grey. “Would the American Congress really call on you?” Teddy asks, biting his lip. Harry pats him on the shoulder and smiles reassuringly.

“Probably not, Ted. It’s just that if things get too out of hand here, Kingsley made me promise to step in as a last resort.”

       “Oh.” Teddy doesn’t look too happy about that piece of information, and Harry doesn’t blame him. Harry took up the position as head Auror back home once Teddy started attending Hogwarts. He’d been the youngest wizard to ever assume the position (but then, he’d been the youngest wizard to ever do a lot of things) and it had all worked out brilliantly — until Harry almost got himself blown up in a duel against a polish wizard who’d been dabbling in necromancy. Harry had been alone and caught unawares, and Harry knows deep down that the last killing curse really should have offed him. Still, he’d gotten out of there mostly whole and with both of his partners still breathing. It had been the damn gossip rags that had caused the real disaster.

       Teddy — a small unruly second year at the time — had caught wind and snuck out of Hogwarts in order to rush to St Mungo’s only to find his godfather unconscious and re-growing most of his left side. It had been an awful mess, and Teddy never really got over it.

       Harry hadn’t stepped down from his position immediately, — there had been too many things up in the air in the years after the war, and the position had given him the extra political weight to push for anti-segregation laws and reinstating muggle-studies as an obligatory class in the Hogwarts curriculum. Still, resigning had been the right thing to do — for Teddy at least, and wasn’t that the whole point.

       Harry reaches out and ruffles the 15 year-old’s shaggy brown hair affectionately. He’s already taller than Harry by at least an inch, and Harry can’t help but think he looks more and more like Remus by the day. Teddy lets him do it grudgingly, grumbling a bit and hiding his smile.  

 

*

 

       “So how are you liking America so far?” Hermione asks, her mouth twisting thoughtfully as she studies Harry. Harry smiles down at the embers in the fireplace that make up his old friend’s face.  
       “It’s alright,” Harry tells her, “The house you picked out for us is nice, and there’s a lot of witches and wizards in the neighbourhood if the magical traces in the air are anything to go by. I reinforced the wards bit of course, but it’s nice to know there are others around if Teddy runs into any trouble.”

       “Oh?” Hermione lifts a glowing eyebrow at him and Harry grimaces. She chuckles. “I’m surprised at how composed you are Harry, I thought you’d be crawling up the walls by now. Ron bet George you wouldn’t be able to sit still for more than two weeks, you know.”

       Now it’s Harry’s turn to chuckle. “And what did you bet?” He askes her with a wink, and she grins.

       “Three months.”

       “You’re almost out of time then.”

       “You have until the end of the week to do something stupid. I’m going to buy myself a Kneazle with the winnings.”

       “What happened to Crookshanks?” Harry askes surprised.

       “He passed this spring, the kids are devastated.”

       “I’m sorry, ‘Mione he was a brilliant cat.”

       “Even Ron took to him in the end, he really was a good pet.”

       “I’m not going to do something reckless just so you can buy yourself a Kneazle Hermione. I'm here to spend some nice quiet quality time with Teddy before I have to ship him back to Hogwarts again.”

       “I still can’t believe McGonagall suspended him.”

       “I can’t believe she didn’t downright expel him.” Harry tells her grimly, and Hermione rolls her eyes at him.

       “We did worse things, and you know it.” Hermione reminds him, and Harry shakes his head at her in disbelief.

       “You know, I still can’t figure out when you stopped being such a stickler for the rules —now you’re even worse than Ron and I. Besides, _we_ were never stupid enough to get caught trying to blow up one of the professors’ offices.”

       “We brewed polyjuice potion in our _second year,_ Harry. I got turned into a cat. I’m still amazed Dumbledore let us get away with it.”

       “He was a loon.” Harry says fondly, and they both laugh. But then Hermione sighs and looks at him with that worried twist to her mouth that Harry knows all too well.

       “But really Harry, how are you holding up? I know you miss your job, don’t try to hide it.”

       Harry sighs as well, and tries to smile. “I’m a little bored I guess,” Harry admits reluctantly, “America is such a big place, but the Wizard community feels so small here — there’s hardly any hidden streets or establishments and no proper wizarding villages to visit in this part of the county — not that I would go if there _where_ any mind you, but still.” Harry shakes his head and closes his eyes in resignation. “I know it sounds awful, but being here feels a little like those summers with the Dursley’s. Having to hide my magic most everywhere I go and feeling like a… Well, like a muggle you know? Like something I'm not.”

       Hermione looks properly worried now and Harry grimaces at himself and regrets saying anything at all.

       “Harry you could come home, we—“ Hermione begins, but Harry is already shaking his head before she can even finish the sentence.

       “You know that’s not a good idea ‘Mione, I promised Kingsley I’d back off for a while and I will. Besides, I’ve got Teddy to deal with, he’ll keep me sane.”

       Hermione stays quiet for a while, searching his face for… for something. Determination, perhaps, or sincerity, he can’t be sure.

       “Alright.” Hermione says at last, “Just— just promise me you won’t go looking for trouble, okay? Don’t get yourself involved in anything dangerous.”

       Harry snorts and grins crookedly, “I thought you wanted that Kneazle.” He jokes, but Hermione doesn’t smile black.

       “I’d rather have you safe.” She tells him solemnly, and Harry lets her words settle for a moment before answering.

       “I’ve never actually gone looking for trouble Hermione. Trouble has just always had a way of finding me.”

       “Joining the Aurors was looking for trouble, Harry.”

       “No it wasn’t. That was a job, and I had trained witches and wizards around me when I went into the field. Most of the time it was just paperwork.”

       “Harry,” Hermione presses, “promise me.”

       Harry gazes down at the ashy outlines of her face, noting the worry lines and the way her eyes are crinkled with stress.

       “I promise.” Harry swears, “don’t worry about me, Hermione.”

 

*

 

       Harry does not go looking for trouble but as so many times before, trouble finds him.

 

*

 

       Tony Stark draws a long, deep breath, the Iron Man suit restricting the rise of his chest just a bit but not enough to make the motion uncomfortable. Then he activates the jet thrusters and he’s off, hurting through the air at insane speeds. ‘ _Yes!’_ he thinks, elated that the newest improvements seem to be working. He could have tested them the lab of course, — that might have been safer (though with Dum-E there, it was sometimes hard to tell) but field-testing is simply more fun all around. With adrenaline pumping hot and electric through his veins, Tony angles the suit upwards again, pressing for more height as he bursts through the cloud cover and into clear blue skies above. Up, up he goes, faster, higher.

       The oxygen regulator kicks in successfully, supplying Tony with the needed oxygen percentages as the air outside thins. But then condense from the clouds start freezing on his suit, locking the joints. Tony grits his teeth, and activates the new heating system that’s supposed to keep life in the electronics. Up, up he goes, higher, and the heating seems to be working as he rises — until suddenly the suit shorts out.

       And then he is falling, — hurtling downwards faster and faster as his momentum builds.

       “Oh dear.” Tony mumbles, and starts fumbling franticly with the jets attached to his feet, trying to get his steel-clad fingers to crack through the smooth, solid layer of clear ice that coats the suit.

       “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

       He hits the cloud cover and for heartbeat everything is soft white and cold grey, and then he’s through and the ground is _right there,_ beneath him and zooming upwards to meet him at a dizzying speed.

       “Common, common, _common_.” Tony pleads as he grapples with the suit. And then suddenly, the jets are on again and he has his feet under him, slowing down his insane free-fall. But the ground is too close, and his momentum is too big and it keeps dragging him downwards. He barely has time to lift an arm to shield his head before he crashes, — hitting the pavement too hard and denting both it and the suit.

       The shock of it knocks him unconscious for a few seconds, before his eyes flutter open and he groans because his back feels like one ginormous bruise. He takes a quick inventory of his body-parts and is pleased to note that he can still wiggle all his toes and fingers and that he doesn’t seem to be bleeding anywhere.

       None of the electronics are working, and JARIVS is definitely out, which is a damn shame, because Tony forgot to bring his STARKphone, and he really has no idea where he is. Gingerly, Tony Stark pries off the faceplate, and then the rest of the helmet. The Suit isn’t really designed to be removed manually but it’s too heavy to walk in without the mechanics functioning correctly. He’ll have to fix that somehow.

       “Merlin’s beard.” A voice comments form his left, and Tony looks up to find a man standing on the sidewalk a few feet away. The man is plainly dressed, and he’s carrying what looks to be grocery bags. Something about his short stature and his messy black hair reminds Tony of… someone. He can’t quite place the memory.

       It’s only then that Tony realises that he’s sitting in the middle of a smallish road with nice, big houses lining both sides of the street. Its noon, and the roads here are empty and the houses abandoned for the day, a fact Tony is quite frankly grateful for.

       “Blimey, are you alright there?” The man steps closer, a look of mild concern tinged with amusement settling onto his features. Tony can’t help but feel a little offended at the man’s tone — it had been a rather dramatic crash after all, he figured he had at _least_ earned some panicked shouting and insistent ambulance calling.

       “Oh you know,” Tony says nonchalantly, “just a little hiccup, — a bit of malfunctioning. You have to be prepared for a bit of bruising when you mess with these kinds of things.” Tony tries rolling his shoulders and grimaces as a fierce ache has his eyes watering.

       The man hums amiably — as if flying robots crashing down in front of him is an everyday occurrence — and says “A fall like that one can be quite nasty, can’t they? I bet you’re thoroughly bruised. Do you need a hand?” All this is said in a fancy British accent and with a sort of careless, cheeky smile that Tony thinks is rather out of place given the situation.

       Still, Tony does actually need a hand removing the breastplate, and one of his gauntlets is smashed enough to be stuck despite the easily accessible latches.

       “Would you mind?” Tony askes, and the man smiles and puts down his groceries. Gingerly, the man helps remove the pieces of amour, taking care not to put pressure on Tony’s back or shoulders and ignoring Tony’s complaints good-naturedly. Tony quickly decides that the man must be a decent sort of fellow, — even if he does have a few screws loose.

       “I really quite like what you’ve done with this thing,” the mans says conversationally as he helps remove one of the upper-arm pieces, “I mean, I’ve seen a couple of animated suits before, but it’s nice that you went for a modern look. A break with tradition and all that, — it’s the kind of attitude we need more of back home.”

       Tony blinks at the guy, and he has to spend a moment maintaining his poker face. “Right,” Tony agrees, the word coming out a little strangled but otherwise fine. The man doesn’t seem to notice. “And home would be… Britain?” Tony askes, deciding to humour the man despite his generally low tolerance for idiots.

       The man looks down at him, the outline of a jagged scar faintly visible beneath the fringe of unruly back hair, and for the first time there is real surprise etched into the man’s features. “Yes… London, in fact.” The man says, worry slowly replacing surprise as he continues to eye Tony with a careful sort of look “Say, mate, you didn’t hit your head when you fell did you?”

       “No.” Tony tells him, “No I’m pretty sure my head is fine.” The man doesn’t look entirely convinced.

       “Listen,” the man, says, “Why don’t you come inside for a bit and have a cup of tea and maybe some dittany and some chocolate.” He gestures to the house just behind Tony, and Tony turns to find an old, well-maintained Victorian-styled house with crooked shutters and a large front yard housing two ancient, gnarly elm trees that obscure most of the facade. The place looks a little haunted and quite a bit like a home, and Tony can’t remember the last time he set foot in a house like this one.

       “Ah…” Tony says, unsure whether following this nutcase into his layer is a good idea. Tony’s mother did always warn him not to go with strangers, but then, his parents hadn’t been all that good at the whole _parenting_ _thing_. And he honestly needs to borrow a phone if he is going to have a crack at getting home today.

       “Sure.” Tony tells the man, but then looks down at the pieces of red and gold piled neatly at the curb and hesitates.

       The man catches the look and nods in understanding. “Don’t worry,” the man says, “I’ll move it all up on the porch shall I?” The man then hauls Tony to his feet and catches him around the waist in a surprisingly strong grip when Tony almost topples, — his knees giving out underneath him.

       “Alright?” the man asks, and Tony nods even though he has seriously begun to wonder if he should maybe ask for an ambulance after all. Except, well, it seems sort of pathetic to ask for an ambulance when nobody else seems to think it necessary, — not to mention how awfully dreary hospitals are and how Pepper always freaks out whenever she gets a call from the emergency room.

       The man helps Tony scuffle up the long cobbled path to the house and there is a weird sort of _warping_ sensation as he steps over the threshold, — as if the air pressure inside the house is vastly different from the one outside.

       “Teddy!” the man calls as he manoeuvres Tony around an oddly shaped umbrella stand, and Tony half expects a dog — presumably a St Bernard or some other ridiculously plush breed of dog — to come hurtling down the stairs at them, but instead a lanky teenager with shaggy brown hair and silvery eyes comes trotting down from the first floor. The boy looks to be about fifteen or sixteen years old, and he’s wearing an odd combination of old thoroughly worn-out jeans, a loosely knotted black and yellow tie, and a pristinely pressed, white shirt with golden cufflinks.

       “Pops?” The kid asks and then stops short on the bottommost step as he spots Tony. “Who is _that_?” Teddy demands rather rudely, and earns himself a frown from ‘Pops’

       “ _Manners_ , Teddy” the man rebooks, and the teenager actually looks a little shamefaced.

       “Sorry.” The kid mumbles, and the man smiles at him fondly.

       “Would you mind helping him into the living room?” the man askes Teddy, “I need to get the groceries and move some stuff away from the curb.”

       “Sure.” Teddy agrees, and soon Tony Stark is leaning on the kid’s bony shoulder and scuffling further into the maw of the house. Everywhere Tony looks there are deep maroon carpets, long, floor-length drapes, and heavy wooden furniture. It is completely different from everything Tony has grown used to this last decade, and he’s surprised to find that the décor — though vaguely reminiscent of his own dismal childhood home — doesn’t make him uncomfortable in the least.

       “So who are you?” Teddy asks again as he helps Tony settle down onto a cushiony sofa facing a large open fireplace that is actually sooty enough to suggest regular use.

       “Tony Stark.” Tony tells the kid, chancing the potential hostage-situation that always threatens whenever he is out about on his own and willingly following weird strangers into their spooky old houses. He figures it’s been a while since he’s been in a proper _‘give us money or he gets hurt_ ’ kind of hostage situation though; Pepper might actually be a bit out of practice at this point.

       The kid doesn’t so much as bat an eye at his name though; he just plops down on the sofa next to him and grins lazily. “I’m Teddy Lupin.” Teddy tells him and then looks at Tony a little funny. “So what’d you do to get so banged up anyway?”

       “I fell two thousand meters and crashed into the pavement outside.” Tony replies flippantly, but Teddy — true to form — doesn’t so much as raise a disbelieving eyebrow. Instead, the kid whistles in what Tony can only assume is appreciation.

       “Ouch.” Teddy says not at all sympathetically. “I did that too, once. Not two thousand meters mind you, but a couple of hundred. Hurt like a bitch for two days strait.”

       For once, Tony Stark doesn’t know how to answer, but luckily that’s the moment the dark-haired man decides to come back into the room carrying a steaming teapot, three mugs and a giant bar of chocolate.

       “You’ll be lucky if you even make the team next year.” The man tells Teddy a little sternly; having apparently overheard the last bit of conversation and understood whatever obscure subtext Tony is missing out on. “They aren’t going to want to chance one of their chasers getting suspended for half the season again.”

       “I’m not going to get suspended again!” Teddy exclaims indignantly.

       “Milk and sugar?” the man askes Tony, ignoring the kid’s irritable grumbling, and Tony just nods politely because really, what is it with Brits and tea? But the amber liquid is pored into his mug and so is the milk and the teaspoon of sugar and Tony takes a sip pretending to enjoy it.

       “So, you’ve met my godson Teddy,” the man says, as he pores tea for himself and the boy, and then sits down in a red and gold armchair that looks too squashy to be properly comfortable. “You can just call me Harry, if you don’t mind — I’m not much for formalities when I’m at home.”

       “Tony,” Tony says, holding out his hand to Harry. “And I wouldn’t worry about formalities, I never got the hang of them anyway.”

       Harry smiles and shakes Tony’s hand, his grip surprisingly firm.

       “I couldn’t find any dittany, I’m afraid.” Harry says apologetically, ripping the foil off the chocolate and breaking off large chunks. He offers a particularly large piece to Tony. “Normally I’d have the house full of the stuff, but we’ve only just moved in here recently and there must be at least a million things I forgot to bring.” Harry sighs, rubbing his forehead, and then glances at the chocolate, still hovering indecisively in Tony’s hand. “Well go on, it’ll help.”

       Tony kind of wants to ask what exactly Harry thinks chocolate will help, — not to mention why the fuck he normally had _dittany_ in his house — but as far as superstitious home-remedies go, chocolate seems like a rather pleasurable choice. At least it isn’t raw eggs and boiled lemons; Tony is never going to ask Rhodey for a hangover cure again.

       Taking a bite, Tony is surprised to find that it actually does help a little, — not with the pain, but it takes away some his wooziness and a bit of the flat, hollow exhaustion that always comes crashing in after an adrenaline rush. By the time Tony zones back in on the conversation, Teddy is chattering away at Harry animatedly.

       “— got a letter from Egypt and apparently she’s actually found a Heliopath. I mean, I read about them in the Quibbler but I mean I didn’t _actually_ think she’d find any, you know? Like with the crumpled-horned snorkacks. You don’t actually think that stuff about Fudge’s army could have been—“

       “— _Merlin no_!” Harry exclaims and then bursts out laughing. It’s an oddly disarming sound, and Tony can’t help but notice how Teddy’s grin widens in response and his eyes— _wait what was with the eyes?_ Tony blinks; Teddy’s eyes are grey again.

       “What the hell is a crumpled-horned snorlax?” Tony demands, trying to regain some semblance of a metaphorical foothold in the conversation despite his dawning realization that his hosts are both barking mad and Tony really needs to get out of there just in case their particular brand of delusion is infectious.

       “No idea, to be honest,” Harry tells him with a smile, “a close friend of mine has been trying to convince everyone that they exists for years now, but she finally had to give up her search last year. It was a bit of a blow.”

       “She had me believing in dabberblimbs until I was twelve.” Teddy tells him looking a little embarrassed, and then looks back at Harry, “I’m still sort of mad at you for allowing that by the way.”

       “It was cute.” Harry says unapologetically, “Besides, I honestly assumed your grandmother would have set you strait, she’s never really struck me as _that_ fanciful.”

       “Do you have a phone I could borrow?” Tony asks, perhaps a little desperately, before the conversation can be derailed any further — which Tony sincerely doubts is even possible seeing as he isn’t at all sure the conversation had any figurative tracks to begin with.

       “I think we may have a landline,” Harry says with a disturbingly uncertain look on his face. “But the fireplace is hooked up to the floo-network if you want to…” Harry trails off as he registers the look on Tony’s face. His eyes flicker to Teddy’s and a heavy silence settles over the room. Teddy looks positively alarmed.

       “Right.” Harry says a little too brightly, looking distinctly uncomfortable, “I think the phone is in the kitchen, why don’t I help you up.”

 

*

       Harry and Teddy stand in the doorway of nr 13 Knacksworth Street watching Tony Stark disappear into the backseat of a large, shiny black car and drive away.

       “Did we just break the statute of secrecy?” Teddy asks, worriedly. He looks pale and shaken, his hair turned white and spiky like strands of frost and his eyes are a pale, frightened yellow. The kid has always been more sensitive than he lets on.

       Harry sighs heavily and shakes his head. “It takes more than a little careless chatter to break the statute, Ted. And I don’t think we actually said anything too incriminating.”

       Teddy nods, but he can’t help but notice the concerned frown creasing his godfather’s brow.

       “Wait,” Teddy says, the thought hitting him like a bludger. “How did he get through the protective enchantments if he’s a muggle?”

       “That’s what I’ve been wondering too, Teddy.” Harry tells him, looking troubled.

       “Do you think he’s a squib?”

       “Maybe, but squibs don’t have a magical core — they should still set off one of the disorientation charms or a barrier alarm. Maybe I just botched one of the protective enchantments when I cast them…” Harry doesn’t sound like he believes he has, and Teddy certainly doesn’t. Harry Potter doesn’t _botch_ a ward — he learned to cast them back when a strong ward was the difference between life and death, and he has had professional training in precisely this brand of magic since then.

       But Harry still pulls out his wand of holly and phoenix and slowly walks the perimeter of the house, — twice — muttering incantations all the while. It takes him a good twenty minutes and by the end of it Harry Potter is looking truly perplexed.

       “There’s nothing wrong with the protective enchantments.” Harry says and then sighs again. “I’m going to have to ask Hermione about this. Damn, Ron is going to go mental over that kneazle isn’t he?”

       “Kneazle? Wait, what about Crookshanks?”

       “He passed, apparently. This spring.”

       “WHAT?”

 

 

       

 


	2. When You Are Needlessly Curious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys!  
> Thank you for all the kudos and the amazing feedback, I really appreciate it.  
> So anyway, here's the next installment — I hope you all enjoy it.

 

 

* * *

When You Are Needlessly Curious

* * *

  

       Hermione is every bit as troubled by the failed wards as Harry is, — and then some — and it takes an hours quiet persuasion and the combined forces of both Harry and Ron to talk her out of purchasing a long-distance portkey and rushing to Harry’s side in order to check the wards herself.

       “Are you _sure_ you got the _Repello Muggletum_ right, Harry?” She askes him for the umpteenth time, even though they both know he did. He always does.

       “I still can’t believe you invited a muggle inside your house,” Ron says, “How do you even make that mistake?”

       “The guy was flying around in a suit of amour!” Harry tells them a little crossly, “What was I supposed to think? I just don’t get how he got past my wards, — the house is almost as well protected as Grimmauld Place, — he shouldn’t even have been able to _see_ it.”

       “I’ll read up on it.” Hermione assures Harry, and Harry is certain he can detect an almost manic glint to the glowing embers that make up her eyes.

       “What did you say the guy’s name was, mate?” Ron askes, a great deal more placidly, “maybe I can trace him in the Ministry’s wizard family-records.”

       “Tony Stark, I think,” Harry tells them, looking at Ron expectantly. Ron is the pureblood amongst them after all, and even after all these years he still has the best grasp of the old families and their many branches, — seeing as he is related to most of them in some way or another. But it is Hermione who squeaks out a startled noise, and then hurriedly leaves, muttering something along the lines of ‘where did I leave that article?’, her face disappearing from his hearth.

       Ron and Harry shares a fond, vaguely nostalgic smile as they wait for Hermione to come back and share whatever discovery her brilliant mind has made. In that moment, Harry misses London and Ron and Hermione’s warm, cosy living room fiercely.

       “I got it!” Hermione exclaims, her face reappearing in the bed of ashes in Harry’s hearth. “There was an article in the New York Times a few weeks ago — I saved it because of the crosswords — and well, he’s… Wait I’ll just read it for you, shall I?” there is a rustling sound as a newspaper is unfolded and then Hermione’s clear voice reads: “Anthony Stark, billionaire and CEO of Stark Industries — formerly Stark Enterprises — the world’s foremost developer of munitions, aeronautics, robotics, micro-technology and fringe science, announced this morning at an unscheduled press-conference, that Stark Industries will no longer produce weapons for the government or any other interested parties. Several experts have however, already questioned the validity of this statement due to Tony Stark’s questionable mental health. Tony Stark was only recently found and rescued after having spent almost two moths as a hostage in Afghanistan.”

       Hermione’s voice trails of, and they all sit silently for a while, processing all of this.

       “Bloody hell,” Ron finally swears, “I didn’t understand half of what Hermione just said and I’m still bloody impressed.”

       “Well, it certainly makes a lot of sense.” Harry says, “The flying suit of amour — he must have invented it himself using muggle technology and not just charmed it like I assumed. But it doesn’t cast any light on why he didn’t set off my protective enchantments.”

       “He’s too involved in muggle society and politics to be a wizard, Harry.” Hermione affirms, “The Magical Congress would have stepped in years ago if he was involved in anything magical. Merlin, he must be a bona fide genius! Look, his recent work on clean-energy thermo— Hey! Ron give that back—“

       There is a rustling of newspaper as Harry’s two best friends grapple for the sheets of print and then finally the sound of Hermione huffing as she rolls her eyes.

       “Anyway,” Hermione continues, pointedly ignoring Ron’s interruption, “There _must_ be _some_ kind of magic involved if he could bypass your wards, Harry — even if it is accidental. Maybe he picked up a magical artefact when he was in Afghanistan. The magical bodies of government in the Middle East have always been overrun with illegal or scavenged items.”

       “HA!” Ron exclaims, and both Harry and Hermione look at Ron — the ashes making up Hermione’s face churning as she turns her head. “Tony Stark,” Ron says, reading something aloud from the newspaper, “named most eligible bachelor fifth year in a row! Perhaps it’s time you start considering batting for the other team, eh Harry?” Ron chortles, and Harry groans.

       “It _also_ says he’s an alcoholic and a socialite, Ron.” Hermione says crossly.

       “Socialite,” Ron snorts. “That’s not the word they’re using, ‘Mione.”

       “Oh come off it Ron.”

       Harry smiles at their antics but interferes before it can descend into one of their customary bouts of bickering. “I don’t know ‘Mione, you’re the charms expert, but it seems far-fetched.” Harry says dubiously.

       “I can owl Neville and ask if he would take a look in the Hogwarts library for us. A type of artefact that can bypass _Repello Muggletum_ and _Salvio Hexia_ should be documented _somewhere_.” Hermione insists, and that slightly manic glint in her eyes is back. Harry guesses she’ll most likely end up spending her nights in the Hogwarts library’s restricted section leafing through the old tomes herself. Harry doesn’t try to dissuade her — some battles aren’t worth fighting.

       But something is nagging at Harry, the artefact theory is plausible, — he has learned long ago that very few things are impossible when it comes to magic, — but his gut is telling him it is something else; that there is another solution to the mystery.

       “Could it…” Harry begins hesitantly, “Hermione, could it be blood magic?”

       Hermione looks troubled.

       “I suppose,” the mound of ash tells him, “But I really hope it isn’t.”

 

*

 

       “Well _that_ was surreal,” Tony tells Happy, as they drive away. “The guy wanted me to make a phone call using his fireplace.”

       Happy hums in response, used to Tony’s rambling. Happy is a good sort of fellow, — there aren’t enough Happys in the world.

       “I mean, I talk to my walls all the time, but that’s different you know? My walls talk back. I’m pretty sure this Harry guy doesn’t have an A.I installed in his fireplace. He didn’t even have a television.”

       Happy hums again.

       Tony begins to wonder if Happy has switched on the sound barrier between the front and back seats again, but he doesn’t get the chance to accuse him of anything before Pepper calls. Tony picks up with a familiar sense of trepidation.

       “Hey Potts! Listen, I’m on my way home, should I swing by that—“

       “Tony you Idiot, WHY did the USAF just call me about an unidentified aircraft flying over densely populated areas of land?

       “Everywhere is densely populated here Potts, this is New York, how was I— wait did you just call your boss an idiot?”

       “Well, if the shoe fits.”

       “You just did it again, I should sue you for abuse.”

       “You don’t even know the names of your lawyers’, Tony.”

       “I’d figure it out.”

       “Happy said you crashed down in a residential area.”

       “Happy has a big mouth.”

       “Only when you leave dents in the pavement, Mr Stark” Happy interjects, having apparently been listening the whole time.

       “You left dents in the pavement?” Pepper sounds somewhat hysterical.

       “I’ll pay for the damages!” Tony assures her, “They needed a new road anyway, right Happy? There were potholes!”

       “Tony, are you hurt? How far did you—“

       “Don’t worry Potts, the friendly residents fed me chocolate. I feel so much better thanks to them.”

       “Tony—”

       “Oops gotta go Potts. Happy turn here—“

 

*

 

       “Hermione, if he can bypass my protective enchantments, doesn’t that mean he can—“

       “Yes it probably does.”

       “That could be really dangerous.”

       “Harry, this isn’t your—”

       “Hermione, as a trained Auror I have a responsibility to—“

       “You aren’t though, you resigned.”

       “It’s not something you can resign from.”

       “Oi mate, you _have_ to read some of these articles. This Stark bloke is even more famous than you are!”

       “Ron, are you still reading the gossip section?”

       “Sure am, mate. Some of the stuff these people get up to—”

       “Ron would you shut up for a minute! Harry, _please_ don’t do anything reckless.”

       “I won’t, Hermione, I promise.”

       …

       “You always do.”

 

*

 

       Tony spends the next week bunkered down in his lab, fending off Pepper and working on his suit. This time, he does the tests in-house and despite Dum-E’s near miss with a fire extinguisher the ordeal leaves Tony with fewer bruises than the field-test did.

       When the suit is ready, he pays his acquaintances in Afghanistan a visit.

       Tony Stark may have found his conscience buried and forgotten in the crimson Afghan sands, but he has always been ruthless, and so there is no hesitation in him as he kills for the first time, and the second and the third.

       The lives he took in his escape do not count — that had been self-defence, his last desperate bid for life. But _this_ is murder, and it does not surprise him that he is capable of it.

       As he soars through the sky, the land and the terrorists burning beneath him, Tony knows the world has changed — irrevocably and forever, — and not even Pepper’s outrage at his tardiness or insistence that he get back to work can pull him down from the euphoric high this knowledge causes.

       He is a man-made god now, — as invincible as any human has ever been.

 

*

 

       “Tony, you haven’t had any lady-friends over for weeks now, — not that I'm complaining, but—”

       “Wait, I haven’t? And did you just refer to my hook-ups as ‘lady-friends’? I’m pretty sure they’d take offence at that. Well, mostly the friend part, though some of them—.”

       “I haven’t kicked anyone out of here since before Afghanistan.”

       “That was more than a month ago. Wait is this one of those intervention things?”

       “Which is why Happy and I—“

       “— Shit it is. And don’t you start dragging Happy into this—“

       “— are starting to get concerned on your behalf. Maybe you should see a psychologist. The emotional trauma—”

       “Pepper, I went to an all-boys boarding school, — I’ve always suffered from emotional trauma.”

       “Is it because you’ve gone back to guys again? Because you know I’m fine with that.”

       “I am aware of you being fine with that.”

       “Then what exactly is—”

       “Potts, you worry too much.”

*

 

       Tony Stark leaves Stark Industries’ New York headquarters at around noon, practically fleeing the dull board-meetings and the endless presentations of performance evaluations. He is good at his job, — in fact he is excellent, — but it is just so goddamn _boring_ most of the time. Pepper can handle it for a little while — he is just going out to pick up coffee. That has to be done too, after all. No business has ever achieved success without coffee, — well, except Twinings maybe, but only because they are British and probably has a tea-only policy or some such nonsense.

       He waves off Happy, content to simply walk to his favourite coffee shop just a few blocks down. Except, he may have taken a bit of a de-tour — just to stretch his legs — and now that he thinks about it, there _is_ that delightful little coffee-joint _just_ a few blocks further down. And suddenly, Tony is walking down Broadway — completely by accident of course — which is actually rather nice because how often does _that_ happen.

       It is then that he starts noticing the crowd.

       It is not so much what they are wearing per say — this is New York after all and people wear weird stuff all the time, (it _could_ simply be the annual ‘robes and pointy hats day’ for all he knows,) — it is more how the crowd _moves_ that compels him to stop and take notice.

       A steady stream of oddly dressed people are flooding into an old, squat theatre building — which really wouldn’t be all that odd in and on itself if it wasn’t for the fact that the theatre is _tiny — microscopically_ so — and the crowed is _much_ too large to possibly fit.

       “That _has_ to be against fire safety regulations.” Tony remarks airily and then follows the crowd into the building.

       He experiences that weird warping-sensation again as he pushes through the rotating doors, and Tony can’t help but wonder if he has missed out on some new aggressive air-condition trend or something, because his ears pop and he has to swallow to regulate the sudden pressure.

       He steps out — not into an overly crowded theatre lobby — but in into a tiny, damp and completely deserted street with bulging cobble stones underfoot and small seedy shops with grimy windows and names like ‘Bleached Bein & co.’ and ‘Goshawk and Greenwitch, Hawks, Hunting & Hubris’ and Tony is not only thoroughly confused but also distinctly revolted to find actual bones on display in one of the aforementioned windows.

       Tony turns, but there is no rotating door behind him only a slick, mouldy brick wall.

_What?_

       “JARVIS,” Tony mutters into his earpiece, “Did I by any chance mess with anything recreational this morning? Just in case I— er— forgot.”

       “Today you have consumed 5 cups of coffee with an estimated caffeine content of more than 200mg per cup, sir. This is above the recommended daily intake.”

       “Right so that’s a no then. Oh and let off with the coffee-bashing, I’ll have you know you were created on coffee.”

       “Duly noted, sir.”

       Tony starts walking down the cobbled street, growing increasingly perplexed as it narrows further and begins to wind dramatically like the coils of a snake. Where the fuck _is_ he? There aren’t any _winding_ streets in New York. New York is all strait lines and square blocks. Tony is just about to demand JARVIS plot point him on a map, but it is at that moment a small, black-robed man comes dashing past Tony, bumping shoulders in his hurry.

       “Well, that was rude.” Tony mutters as the figure disappears around the next bend. The man had been clutching something tightly in his arms. Then the clattering sound of hard-soled boots against granite comes echoing down the street towards Tony again, and a heartbeat later, two tall, hulking figures turn the bend at a run and then stop short as soon as they see Tony standing there.

       They too, are dressed in billowing, floor-length robes — all black — but their hair is greasy and uncombed and they look like they haven’t had a bath in months. The shorter of the two men takes a step forward, sizing up Tony with a glance, and a look of vehement distain twists its way onto the mans sallow face and congregates into the most impressive sneer Tony as ever seen. He sort of wants to take a picture of it — just so he can show it to Pepper later — but Tony feels the man might be inclined to take it amiss. The man certainly looks like he wants to be provoked.

       “The thief ran that way.” Tony says, pointing down the narrow street to where the first man disappeared. The two men look at him like he has lost his head. Tony figures it was worth a shot.

       “Think ye’re funny ey?” Snarls Shorty — who is admittedly taller than Tony, but small next to the orc of a man standing behind him. “Skulking about where ye’re no business being, dressed like a blood-traitor — or are ye a filthy mudblood, ey?” Shorty takes another menacing step forward, towards Tony. “Ye think you’re safe just ‘cause our Lord is gone for now? He’ll be back though, won’t he? Back like before. Back to weed out all ye filthy weeds.”

       The man isn’t making any sense whatsoever, but it doesn’t take a genius to recognise a violent, radicalized extremist when they’re five feet away and literally spitting obscure slurs in your face, — and Tony _is_ a genius, so by the time shorty’s hand has slipped into the folds of his overly dramatic — and rather clichéd villain robes — Tony has already activated his emergency Iron Man gauntlets, and they have detached themselves from around his ankles and zoomed up and fitted themselves fluidly to his hands.

       Eventually, he’ll have a fully collapsible Iron Man suit ready, but so far he’s only managed to minimize the gauntlets. Still, with their repulser beams they should be more than enough to protect him from a pair of deluded bigots — even if they are freakishly big and unwashed.

       Tony does, however, manage to feel rather embarrassed on both of their behalfs when Shorty does not pull out a gun or even a knife, but a thin wooden stick.

       “Did you by any chance reach into the wrong pocket?” Tony suggests helpfully, but Shorty just sneers at him, and points his stick at Tony.

       “Those are some nice gloves ye got there, — repelling charms is it?” Shorty says in a way that conveys how completely _un-nice_ he actually finds Tony’s gauntlets. Tony tries not to take too much offence. “What? Ye not good enough with a wand to duel like a man?” Shorty taunts, taking yet another step towards him, and Tony decides that at this point firing is more self-defence than anything, — even if the vile bastard _is_ only waving a stick about. Tony points a gauntlet at the ground next to Shorty and fires a warning-shot; just strong enough to knock some of the cobbles loose and make them scatter.

       With all the roads Tony is destroying lately, he can’t help but wonder of perhaps Stark Industries should branch out into road-repair work — it might be a cheaper solution in the long run.

       Shorty stops in his tracks and glances down at the wreckage at his feet. He doesn’t look nearly as impressed as Tony feels he should, though he does eye the gauntlets thoughtfully.

       “Stupid move.” Shorty tells him, his mouth curling into a nasty smirk, “Now I know what ye got.” And then Shorty raises his stick again and Tony thinks he maybe sees a few sparks fly from the tip just before a shop door _slams_ open, and there is flash of light so bright he is momentarily blinded.

       A hand clamps down onto Tony’s shoulder from behind and he flails wildly as he is shoved backwards and onto the ground. The newcomer steps around him, putting himself between the two sleazeballs and Tony. There is something startlingly familiar about the man’s short stature and messy black hair.

       “Of all the bloody places you could meander into, you just _had_ to pick bloody Melanchonalley didn’t you.” Harry grumbles at Tony, his tone berating. “And stay down would you.” It isn’t a question.

       Tony has never been very good at following orders though, so he gets up.

       Harry is holding a stick of his own and he is brandishing it like a duelling cane, — his other arm held out for balance as he leans into a loose, practiced crouch. He looks like someone who is used to fighting. Well, if you disregard the stick that is.

       “Well I’ll be damned,” the taller of the two men rumbles hoarsely, his voice as rough as gravel. “If it isn’t _Potter_.”

       “Seward Dolohov,” Harry greets through somewhat gritted teeth, “and Walden Macnair Jr. I’ve been hunting the two of you for years.”

       Shorty — Macnair — is grinning widely, — showing off every one of his yellowed teeth, — and there is a deranged sheen to his eyes as he stares at Harry.

       “Seward!” Macnair all but squeals, “It’s _Potter_! It’s _Potter_!”

       “Uh,” Tony interjects, tired of not having a clue as to what the hell is going on. “Are you famous or something?”

       It is hard to tell, — what with Harry standing with his back to him and all, — but Tony is pretty sure Harry grimaces.

       “I might be sort of known in, — uh— certain circles, I guess.” Harry informs him rather vaguely, keeping his eyes on the two hulking men.

       “Certain circles that include these two maniacs?” Tony askes, not really seeing the connection though he supposes they _could_ know each other from some kind of support group for the mentally unstable. Except well, Harry strikes him more as pleasantly eccentric — the kind who has conversations with his fireplace and stuffs his house with dittany — as opposed to dangerously unhinged. Besides, Tony is almost positive Harry wasn’t referring to _actual_ circles.

       Tony _is_ however, certain that Harry grimaces this time.

       “In a manner of speaking.” Harry concedes rather unwillingly, his words coming out a little strangled. “But if you ever make me lump myself in with this ilk again I _will_ punch you. Hard.” Tony supposes that is fair, — he wouldn’t want to be lumped in with them either. He _would_ like to know what was up with all the sticks though, — even the Seward guy has pulled one out now and is waving it about menacingly — but at this point it seems rude to ask.

       “I’ll _kill_ ‘im! I’ll _kill_ ‘im!” Macnair is screeching, and even Seward is eying the smaller guy a little carefully.

       It is hard to tell who moves first, but suddenly flashes of light is streaking between the three men, _bursting_ from — what Tony concedes must be wands not sticks — only to be deflected _just_ before hitting their intended targets. Sometimes one of the streaks of light will leave scorch marks across the cobblestones, or one of them will hit a window plane and the glass will explode into millions of tiny shards, or grind down into white unblemished sand.

       Harry is covering for him — that much is clear by the way the other man keeps stepping sideways, continuously placing himself between their attackers and Tony. It’s a nice gesture really, — Tony finds himself thinking, — but also rather unnecessary considering how neither of the two black-robed men are actually aiming anything at him — which is quite frankly _rude._

       Beads of sweat glisten at the nape of Harry neck as he skilfully parries each blow, every now and then managing to sneak in a counterattack strong enough to send one of the men stumbling backwards. He’s struggling though, — his opponents are barraging him with a constant hail of attacks — forcing him to remain on the defensive.

       “What’s the plan?” Tony asks, just loud enough to be heard over the sound of glass exploding and wood splintering.

       “I could use a distraction,” Harry tells him through gritted teeth, “A small one — just for a second, — I need to send up a flare.”

       “Next time Shorty stumbles,” Tony decides, “Be ready.”

       “Just keep clear of the big guy.” Harry says, panting slightly, “That bastard is trouble.”

       A flash of red slashes past Harry, close enough to leave a thin gash across his cheekbone, and then Harry lounges forward, — moving with the grace of an experienced fencer as he launches into a fury of attacks so quick that both Seward and Macnair are forced backwards and on the defensive.

       “Now!” Harry bellows, as he sends a particularly potent beam of blue light at Macnair. Tony raises his gauntlet and blasts the ground away under Shorty’s feet, causing the man keel over backwards, his arms and legs flailing.

       Harry doesn’t so much as miss a beat, — in the brief, confused, respite caused by Tony’s intervention, Harry sends up a crimson flare of light into the sky, and it hangs there, flashing brilliantly in what might convincingly have been Morse code.

       “Oh no you don’t.” Tony mutters as he spots Shorty already halfway on his feet again. Tony fires another shot at the man and then follows up with a pair of cobblestones aimed at his head. The repulser beam glances off Shorty’s invisible shield, but one of the cobblestones gets through and hits Shorty square in the chest, causing him stumble back further, snarling viciously at Tony.

       Out of the corner of his eye, Tony catches a glimpse of Harry battling furiously against Seward Dolohov, roof shingles and bits of shop front flying through the air as violent blasts of magic knocks them loose or sets them on fire.

       “ _Avada Kedavra!”_

       Seward’s deep, hoarse voice _roars_ out the words, and Harry flings himself backwards and to the side — colliding with Tony and pushing him down as a blinding green light illuminates the alley and a rushing sound fills Tony’s his ears. Behind them, a shop front explodes into blazing green flames.

       There is a series of sharp _cracks_ as four white plumes of smoke suddenly appear in front of them and coalesce into people.

       “Took them long enough,” Harry mutters, detangling himself from Tony and springing to his feet. Tony doesn’t try to make sense of any of it — he just goes with it, for now. He’d have his answers later.

       Seward Dolohov takes one look at the new arrivals, swears, and then disappears into thin air with a _crack_ and a plume of black smoke. Walden Macnair Jr. isn’t as lucky and three figures are on him in a heartbeat before he too can escape.

       “Mr Potter,” the forth person greets, a dark-skinned, scarred woman clad in worn leather, — leather boots, leather gloves, leather eye patch. She looks as fierce as a lion and as tough as a nail and she could probably have scared the living crap out of anyone if it hadn’t been for the fact that she is only about five feet tall and decidedly baby faced.

       “Amy Bartosz, head Auror of the MACUSA division, it’s a honour to meet you sir.” The woman says, holding out her hand to Harry brusquely and Harry shakes it solemnly, a reserved cast to his eyes. The two step further down the alley, carefully skirting bits of wreckage — their heads bent and their voices too low to carry.

       Tony watches the exchange impatiently, his eyes narrowed as he carefully catalogues the last fifteen minutes in his head. He is of half a mind to just stomp over and demand an explanation, but the warning look Harry keeps shooting his way every ten seconds has him rooted and holding his tongue.

       Then Harry comes striding back to Tony, grabs him by the arm and marches him up the street — back the way Tony had come.

       “So…” Tony mutters to Harry as they hurry away, “I’m guessing you actually _do_ make phone calls using your fireplace.”

       Harry Potter snorts.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
